rabbit classroom
Praise the God that broke our spines.
That lined us up like children at our desks.
Stuffed us full of sawdust and now nothing
is clean or upright. Everything tight in our
bodies, but nothing where it should be.
The heart, cut clean out. Our tiny tongues.
What would we say in the class room,
fashioned so perfectly down to our tablets.
The tiny sticks of chalk. We couldn’t hold
them without glue. They kept falling to the floor.
So now, we hold them forever. God says look more
human, so we comply, open our eyes wide.
Tilt our heads. But still, god owns the blue walls,
The windows that look upon nothing.
Owns the chairs, we keep slipping from.
The words we scribble on slips of paper
from our tiny mouths to God’s enormous ears.
